


Biting Your Own Neck

by livenudebigfoot



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Collars, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:16:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/pseuds/livenudebigfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'“Saw this; thought of you.” This is printed on a scrap of paper folded on top of a small package sitting in the middle of Fusco’s kitchen table. It’s not signed. That’s alright. He knows who it’s from.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Biting Your Own Neck

“Saw this; thought of you.”

This is printed on a scrap of paper folded on top of a small package sitting in the middle of Fusco’s kitchen table. It’s not signed. That’s alright. He knows who it’s from. He sighs, steels himself, and settles down at the table.

The package is a thin, white cardboard box, iridescent and textured, the kind his ex-wife used to keep jewelry in long after she brought it back from the store, feather-light gold chains resting on dusty cotton wool. It’s heavier than those boxes ever were, though. He gives the box a curious shake, hears a solid, gentle thud within. Probably not jewelry. Probably something illegal. When he opens the box, he’s cautious. He’s expecting a joke, one of the sickly funny jokes his boss likes so much. Part of him is expecting a severed finger, a lonesome ear, a gory little reminder of what will happen if he ever slips up again.

He is not expecting this.

A dog collar, thick brown leather, soft and scuffed with age, rests on the cotton padding like it’s a goddamn diamond necklace. It’s a heavy, old fashioned thing, dull metal buckle, last notch in the belt wide and protruding from years of use. Well worn, well loved.

His first thought is, “oh god, oh god, he killed someone’s dog.” He can’t think of why Reese would do that, why Reese would send him the collar, but that’s where his mind goes. He tosses the box aside, begins to turn the collar over and over in his hands, each dark splotch in the leather a potential bloodstain. Finally, it occurs to him to check the tag. The dog tag is the only thing new about the collar, clean and unscratched and winking in the light. It’s silver, brightly polished, perfectly round. On one side, a blank. On the other side, just a name, simply but emphatically engraved.

Lionel.

_Jesus._

“You’re really fucking funny, you know that?” he growls to no one. Maybe it’s for the benefit of the microphone of his cell phone, because someone might be listening in. You never know. He laughs to himself, short and derisive, but he can’t shake the chill down his back. He considers throwing the collar out, decides not to in case his friend in the suit has an actual reason for giving it to him. Considers throwing it out just to piss him off. Resolves to stash it in a drawer and forget about it.

He ends up lying awake in the dark, worrying the collar in his hands half the night. He wants to throw it out, never look at again, but something about it nags at him, makes him frightened.

He’s still holding it when he wakes up.

***

“Did you get my gift?” Reese whispers on the other end of the line.

He leans back in his chair with a sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it. What was that, a joke?”

“You’ve been a very good dog lately, Lionel. You come when you’re called; you don’t bite. Might as well make it official.” He’s smiling, just a little, that terrifying, smug, flirtatious look. He doesn’t even have to see it to know. “But you’re not wearing it. I put thought into that gift, Lionel. I’m hurt.”

“What can I say? It didn’t match my eyes. Did you call me for a reason?”

He can still hear the smile in his voice. “The juvenile criminal record for an Angela Vickers. I need it unsealed.”

“Got it.”

“See you tonight, Lionel.”

“What?”

His boss hangs up, leaving that feeling of dread and excitement to creep over Lionel again. He puts his phone down on the desk a little harder than he needs to, and across the way, Carter glances up.

“Who was that?” she asks.

“Old friend from Narcotics,” he says. Did he always lie this easy?

“Does he know you hate him?”

“Wouldn’t be much of a friend if he didn’t.”

She smiles a little, gets back to reports.

 _See you tonight._ He wants a drink.

***

He forgets about it until he gets home and finds the door unlocked. Immediately, he thinks break-in, drug cartels, he’s about to get murdered, but then he hears, “Come in, Lionel,” and somehow that’s a relief.

He’s standing in the middle of the apartment, suit flawless as always. He doesn’t belong there, too tall and handsome for this small and dingy place. He’s holding the collar in one hand.

“Did you go through my stuff?”

“Shut the door, Lionel,” he says pleasantly. He’s still angry, but he does.

“We need to work out some boundaries,” he says, slamming the door and locking it behind him. “You can’t be breaking into my apartment whenever the hell you want.”

“You know I can.”

Fusco sighs, resigned. “I know.”

“Come over here.” He doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to be anywhere near him, but he still moves closer, almost involuntarily. Reese catches him by the wrist and pulls him the rest of the way, maneuvers him backward into a chair.

“Sit,” he says, and Fusco, to his own horror, does. No hesitation, on command. He’s going to get so much shit for this, but Reese is just smiling to himself, faint and sweet and still unbearably smug. Reese’s fingers slip under his chin and guide his head back. He loosens Fusco’s tie, draws it over his head and sets it beside him, undoes the top few buttons on Fusco’s shirt and draws it open, leaving his throat exposed.

“What the hell are you doing?” he gasps. He never meant to gasp. His breath comes so quickly now, short fits and starts.

“Shh.” Fusco tries to lift his head and Reese pushes him back again. “Stay.”

He stays. God help him, he stays. Reese’s hand leaves his throat for a second, returns with the collar. The soft leather is heavy and cool against his skin, the buckle and tag sharp points of cold, but Reese’s fingertips are warm and steady as they draw the collar around his neck. He’s careful, accommodating, sliding fingers between Fusco’s throat and the slowly constricting band to check that he has room to breathe. He feels the leather slide liquid through the buckle, Reese’s breath close on his neck as he fiddles with the tongue of the buckle as it slips into one of the pinholes, adjusts the whole collar so the tag hangs bright in the hollow of Fusco’s throat.

“There.” He pats him on the cheek. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” The pat becomes a stroke, languid and careful, along the side of his face and back into his hair, long fingers scratching at his scalp. “Now you look like you belong to someone.”

His eyes slide shut, sharp intake of breath. “I don’t understand,” he says, and his own voice sounds like it’s a thousand miles away.

“I know,” Reese whispers. “I know you don’t.” He fastens the buttons on Fusco’s shirt, straightens it. “Just leave it on a while.” His hands rest on Fusco’s knees a moment, squeeze hard, and as suddenly as the pressure comes, it’s gone.

He doesn’t open his eyes until he hears the door to his apartment click open and shut, and he’s sure he’s alone again. His hand goes to his throat, fingers scrabbling at the buckle, but almost immediately he stills. He listens for footsteps on the stair, to the whir of electronics. Reese is gone now, but Fusco isn’t so naïve that he thinks this means Reese can’t see him, somehow. He’s not alone now; he never is. The collar has weight to it, a not-unpleasant weight, like a warm hand on his shoulder. It’s this weight of ownership that makes him reluctant to take it off just yet. So he leaves the collar on.

Only for a little while.

***

It haunts him, a little.

Reese doesn’t mention it, doesn’t mention anything, doesn’t even take a glance at his pointedly bare throat the next time they meet in person (business, this time) but the collar follows him around, a humiliating, sickening little memory. He can carry on pretending he doesn’t know what it means, but why lie to himself? He knows it’s just Reese’s way of telling him that Fusco’s his bitch now.

Like he doesn’t already know that. Like he isn’t always somebody’s bitch.

Like he needs reminding.

But he wears it sometimes anyway. Not where anyone can see him, not even every night, just some nights when he’s tired and beaten down, his thoughts turn to the leather strap coiled under a shirt at the back of his dresser drawer. He can hesitate for hours, the drawer looming large in his mind, the weight in the pit of his stomach growing, telling himself he shouldn’t even think about that weird, embarrassing thing, but when the mood takes him, it’s only a matter of time before he has the collar in his hands again.

So he wears it when he’s home alone at night, when he’s got no one but himself to judge him for it. It’s heavy on his neck and it keeps him still, keeps him grounded. He wears it tight around his throat, secure, until it becomes a part of his skin and he forgets it’s there.

Once he’s woken up at night by this persistent jingling sound, only to realize that it’s the tag clinking against itself whenever he rolls over in his sleep.

Once he’s at work, talking with Carter about key witnesses in robbery gone wrong, and her brow furrows and she gives him the strangest look, and he only figures out why a second before “Fusco,” she says, “is that a necklace?”

He tugs the collar of his shirt up higher, straightens his tie. “Nope.”

She looks like she’s about to ask for an explanation, but she rolls her eyes, gives her head a little shake. She doesn’t care; it’s not her business. They keep talking like nothing happened, but sometimes she’ll kind of side-eye him and he wonders if she’ll ask one day.

Once he’s getting ready to go to work and he catches himself in the mirror, collar still around his neck. He thinks, “That was a close one.” He goes to take it off but instead he just loosens it, so it hangs low on his neck, and he wears his tie just tight enough to cover it, just loose enough so that there’s no suspicious bump. He goes through the day like a well-oiled machine filled with quiet, alien confidence, the collar burning a hole in his throat.

Sometimes this whole thing scares the shit out of him.

***

It’s probably the hottest day that summer, that kind of blazing unbreathable atmosphere that makes him want to find an excuse to work from in front of his desk fan all day, but instead he’s sitting on a park bench, wincing as his skin goes pink and tight in the sun, because that’s where Reese asked him to be. He’s got his jacket crumpled up beside him on the bench, stolen file tucked underneath, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but he doesn’t dare loosen his tie, because. Well, because.

He’s a sick man. He understands this now. The buckle is heating up even under his shirt, and in the places where it touches him, it sears.

He jolts when wet, icy fingers slide down the back of his neck. “You’re wearing it,” Reese says. His voice is flat as always, but Fusco still picks up on an undercurrent of quiet amusement.

“Will you get off? Your hands are freezing.” He starts to rise, to turn to face him, but Reese’s hand locks around the collar and pulls him back down and tight against the back of the bench.

“You’re wearing this too loose,” Reese whispers conversationally. “But you prefer to wear it tighter, don’t you? You’re marking yourself up.” His fingers probe at the soft, raw ruts in Fusco’s neck, the ones you’d only know were there if you really looked for them. He flinches and tries to force Reese’s hands away, but Reese just pulls back hard, just hard enough to make breathing difficult, and his hands drop to his lap. “You have to know that’s too tight, right?” He lets go and Fusco jerks forward, as far away from him as possible without actually leaving the spot.

“Look, I didn’t come out here to get heat stroke and listen to you act like a creep. You want this file or what?”

Finally, Reese strolls around the bench into view, and Fusco hates him instantly. 90 degrees in the shade, and he’s going around in a breezy, half-open shirt like he’s never been uncomfortable in his life. He’s got a drink in one hand, straw bobbing over the side, and he’s never looked more like a model in some cheesy ad.

Fusco takes the file out from under his jacket, hands it off, and Reese settles beside him to read it. He’s never done that before, always quick to glance through and then vanish with a quip. This time he stays, reads the file thoroughly, and when Fusco tries to get up and leave, Reese’s fingers are tangled in the collar again. “Stay,” he says absently.

He does.

Finally, Reese closes the file with a snap. “This is good work, Lionel,” he says. He takes his hand off Fusco’s neck, and Fusco can’t remember if Reese has ever complimented him before, so he stays put. Reese plucks an ice cube from his drink, and casually presses it to the back of Fusco’s neck.

He flinches. “What are you doing?”

“Relax, Lionel. Think of it as a reward.” He pushes it in a slow, freezing circle up his neck and down the back of his shirt, across his shoulders. A confused feeling rises in his chest, violation mixed with excitement. Then Reese says, “Those cuts on your neck. Do you think you deserve them?”

Fusco slaps his hand away, but he doesn’t give an answer, and finally Reese leaves him there. When Fusco looks over his shoulder, he can still see him walking away across the park, file tucked under his arm, peculiar set to his shoulders, decidedly not looking back. He realizes that Reese doesn’t have to be seen, that if Fusco wanted to, he could follow him.

He doesn’t.

Ice water runs down his back, and it’s 90 degrees in the shade and he shudders.

***

He’s not sure who’s avoiding who.

He just knows that he hasn’t heard from Reese in a few weeks.

At first, it’s a relief. No pressure, more time to focus on his real job, no oppressive, intangible hand upon his shoulder. For the first time in a very long time, he feels safe. Safe enough to have the kid over on weekends, like he’s supposed to, only he just hasn’t had the time or the energy or the peace of mind.

So he has the kid over, and the kid’s sitting at the table, socked feet dangling a few inches from the linoleum floor still, gesticulating with a cereal spoon and telling him about his hockey game last weekend and how he should have been there and he’s sorry, so sorry, he’ll get the next one, and he almost feels like a human being again when his kid squints at him and says “Dad, what’s that on your neck?”

It’s a shock to his system. How long has he had it on? Who has noticed it? Why is he still wearing it when he knows he hasn’t thought of Reese in weeks?

He brushes off the question, slips into his own room first chance he gets, throws the collar in the back of the drawer where it belongs. He’s got a long, red stripe looped around his neck, a raw reminder, and throughout the weekend his hand is drawn unconsciously to his throat.

***

It’s six weeks, maybe seven, and he thinks he’s been discarded.

He must have been because how the hell could nothing have come up in six or seven (eight?) weeks? This is New York City. Someone’s always getting murdered.

He doesn’t check his phone as often now but there’s still nothing from him, just an ever-growing pile-up of missed calls from his ex. He has old numbers saved up on his phone, single-use numbers he never bothered to name and he could try the ones that reoccur but he won’t. There wouldn’t be an answer anyway, he knows. Reese isn’t that easy to find. And he’s not sure what he’d say anyway. But he looks for him in the streets and in bars and in the cases that land on his desk until his own work and Carter’s start to blur and meld in his mind.

He’s a better cop than he’s been in a while, but he drinks more these days.

He doesn’t believe it, he knows it’s not true, but in the back of his mind he’s scared that Reese might be dead, and what hope does that leave for the likes of him?

He swears to God he saw him in a bar once. Could have been.

***

His phone buzzes to life for a moment on the bar in front of him, and somehow, before he even glances at the screen, he already knows who it is. This flood of relief and anger washes over him as he reads the text.

It’s pretty straightforward. Hotel. Address. Room number. Now.

He knows the hotel; it’s a pretty nice place, compared to the hotels he generally gets called to on business. Rooms don’t rent by the hour, anyway. Yeah, he knows it. It’s only a few blocks away from here. He’s a little unsteady on his feet right now, but he could make it there easy. He could come running when Reese calls him like the little bitch he is.

He shuts off his phone with heavy, drunken fingers, orders himself a shot of whiskey because at this stage he needs it. The whiskey burns in his throat, his stomach, can’t seem to burn out the part of his brain that wants to stop by the hotel and at least find out what he wants. He white-knuckles the bar, stays put. He won’t give Reese the satisfaction.

It’s an hour later when a viselike grip closes on the back of his neck and he realizes that Reese is probably harder to brush off than that.

“Tell me, Lionel,” he mutters silkily in his ear, “do you ever get tired of drinking alone?”

“Best company there is.” Fusco takes a moment to drain his glass before turning to face him. Reese stands there in a fresh suit, not a hair out of place. As always, he looks too smooth and put-together to exist on the same planet as Fusco, but tonight his eyes are troubled and his fingers bruise the back of Fusco’s neck. “Why? You wanna be drinking buddies or something?”

For a second, he thinks Reese is going to hit him. He’s not sure why, but it’s there in the way he stands, the way Reese scowls at him. “Get up,” he says, voice flat as ever but Fusco knows it’s time to shut up and listen. “I’ll pay your tab. We’re leaving.” Fusco stands up from his seat. He’s not falling-down drunk, but the world is a little bit cloying and unsteady and he’s barely shrugged his way into his jacket before Reese is on him again, one hand locked on the crook of his arm, one hand seizing the collar of his shirt, and he hauls him out of there.

“What’s wrong with you?” Fusco asks, as he’s dragged out the door. Cold night air hits him like a shock and he wonders how long he’s been in that bar.

His grip tightens.“When I call you, you come. Is that understood?”

“Yeah, yeah,” but it isn’t, not really. “Where the hell were you for two months?”

Reese doesn’t seem to hear him. “You had your reprieve, but you still work for me, Lionel. Don’t forget that.” He drags him to a stop, pulls the shirt back away from his neck. “Not even wearing that gift I got you.”

Fusco tries to shake his arm loose, but Reese grabs him harder, pulls him along until Fusco says, “No, no, I mean…” and he reaches across his own body, right hand into left jacket pocket, and pulls out the collar, rolled up in a tight knot of leather, secured with a rubber band.

Reese gives him a very long look, and the smooth mask slips, but doesn’t break. “Come on,” he says softly. His grip on Fusco’s arm lightens up, and it’s more like he’s leading him now.

They walk the next several blocks to the hotel in almost total silence. Once, Fusco asks, “You gonna kill me?”

“No, Lionel,” he says. “Of course not.” But the pause before he says it is long enough to make Fusco wonder.

So he lets himself be hauled through the hotel lobby, into the elevator, and they’re getting looks from people, sidelong looks, because they look _weird_ , this whole situation is weird, and Fusco looks up at Reese and his face is inscrutable and he’s still not totally sure that he isn’t about to be killed.

Reese stops at the room from the text, swipes the key card, light goes green, and he shoves Fusco through the door, slamming it behind them. Fusco staggers, steadies himself, takes a look around. It’s an ordinary hotel room, two single beds with suspect sheets, separated by a lonesome nightstand. No assassins hiding behind the lamp, no plastic tarps laid out to catch the blood. Still, he doesn’t feel safe; he says “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on or what?”

Reese sighs wearily. He tugs at the cuffs of his jacket like he’s uncomfortable in his own skin. “Sit down.” He gestures to the foot of one of the beds, and Fusco obliges. He begins to pace back and forth in front of him, not looking Fusco in the eye, just taking odd, furtive glances at him. He says, “Lionel, I don’t know what to do with you.”

He’s not sure what to say to that.

“Take off your coat,” Reese says, and Fusco begins to shrug it off, cautious, eyes on Reese’s face. “It’s like you don’t know how to take care of yourself. I leave you to your own devices for a few weeks and you fall to pieces.” He proffers one hand and Fusco throws him the coat. Reese digs in the pockets until he comes up with the collar, and unceremoniously tosses the coat in a corner. “Tie. Off. Now.”

Lionel fumbles with the knot. His hands are shaking, useless. Reese sighs, kneels in front of him, and undoes the knot himself. He seems like he’d be content to carry on, but Fusco knocks his hands away. He yanks off the tie himself, crumples it in his hand, and throws it to the floor. “I don’t know what you think you’re talking about,” he says. “I’ve been doing fine since you left.”

“You’re drunk every night, you’re ignoring your ex, and you haven’t gotten half as many arrests lately,” he says, that thin, dry humor running all through his voice. “Half as many arrests isn’t fine, Lionel.”

He doesn’t even question how Reese knows the things he knows anymore. It’s just one more way his life has ceased to be his own. “Yeah, ‘cause you aren’t there to hand ‘em to me. Go figure. I’ve been doing things the old fashioned way.” He’s a little bit taller than Reese this way, sitting on the bed with Reese on his knees in front of him, and he takes the opportunity to scowl down at him for once. “I do OK. I don’t need you around to be a good cop.”

Reese’s eyes are dark and impenetrable as he unbuttons the top two buttons of Fusco’s shirt, leans in impossibly close. “I know,” he says, breath flicking hot against Fusco’s ear, “I know you don’t.” He sits back on his heels, looks him in the eye for the first time since he stopped him on the sidewalk. Reese is like this smoothed out, buttoned-down wall, and Fusco doesn’t know what he’s thinking, just knows that the wheels in his head are turning, doesn’t know if that’s good or bad, doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so short of breath, so lightheaded.

Reese picks up the collar. “You know,” he says, thoughtfully, “I could force this on you. Threaten you, hurt you, there are options. I don’t want to do that. Not just because I don’t want to hurt you, although I don’t, but because I don’t think it would work. Because you, Lionel,” and here he pokes Fusco hard in the chest, “are so stubborn. But I think if I just asked…I think you’d do it. Am I right?”

Fusco’s breaths are long and shuddering. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. Reese’s hand is on his thigh and he doesn’t know and his eyes are drawn to the dark, shadowy hollow of Reese’s throat because he’s scared to look him in the eye and _he doesn’t know_.

“Lionel,” Reese says. “Put it on.”

He thought his hands would shake, but they don’t, they move with this practiced, robotic smoothness as he brings the thick collar up around his own throat. It’s warm from Reese’s hands, soft from use, and it fits him like it’s a part of his body, some extra limb, long forgotten but no less vital. As he slides leather through the buckle, pulls it tight, he sees a glimmer of fear and wonder in Reese’s face and for the first time, Fusco understands.

Then Reese’s hands are on his and he’s standing up, pulling the buckle apart, and Reese says to him, “No, no, don’t pull so tight, you’ll take the skin off your neck like that.” He adjusts the collar, pulls it back a notch. His fingers slide between the collar and his throat, checking the space, worrying softly at the rawness he finds there. “There. I don’t know why you do this to yourself.”

Fusco thinks he does know, and that’s what worries him.

“Do…” Reese swallows. His hand tightens on the collar. He seems to be struggling for words. He finds them, finally, but he seems disappointed in them as he speaks. “Lionel, do you like it when I tell you what to do?”

Fusco closes his eyes, breathes deep. He knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to give it, even when he knows Reese is looking so tentative and unsure, doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction even now. He says, “Go fuck yourself.”

Reese tackles him to the mattress.

It’s a brief, violent struggle, elbows and knees, vicious clawing and swift, rabbit punches, but it’s Reese against Fusco so it’s over pretty quick. Reese has him pinned back in seconds, fingers clenched in the collar, pulling down, down, but not hard enough to choke. “Stay down,” he snarls.

“Yes,” he sighs, a hiss of escaping air, thin and vulnerable.

“You stay down,” Reese says against his ear. He feels hot breath, soft mouth, faint scrapings of teeth.

“Yes.” So weary, now.

Reese’s fingers move to fumble open his belt, thigh slides deliberately between his legs. “Good boy,” he sighs. The vague mouthing and biting on his neck becomes a kiss.

Fusco twitches away. “Fuck off,” he growls. He manages to throw one good punch at Reese’s ribs before Reese flips him onto his stomach, arm wrenched behind his back, collar gripped tight.

“Lionel,” he pants, and Fusco is pretty fucking gratified to hear him breathing hard for once, “do you have to make this difficult?”

“Mmhm,” is all he can manage, with his face pressed to the mattress. Reese lets up on him a little and he raises his head.

“And you do,” he takes a jagged, heavy breath, “you do trust me, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Fusco props himself up on his free arm, half turns. Reese is staring at him hard, mixed amusement and worry. “Yeah, I trust you. Just don’t make a big deal out of it, OK?”

Reese grins like a psycho and knocks Fusco’s skull into the headboard. They’re OK.

Reese goes slow. That’s the worst of it, really. It’d be all too easy to keep his dignity, hang on to something worth bitching about if Reese was selfish or rough or violent or cruel. Instead he’s halfway gentle: tender, attentive, and torturously goddamn slow. Fusco could be struggling, biting, sniping, giving as good as he gets, but instead he’s curled up, clawing the sheets, biting back quiet, empty sounds.

And Reese, the bastard, knows it. He leans forward, whispers in Fusco’s ear, “You are never going to miss another one of my calls again.” God, it’s like he can _hear_ the smug.

“Get in line, jackass,” he snarls between harsh, angry gasps. “You’re not the only guy in New York wants to fuck me over.” Reese pushes forward, and a whine escapes Fusco’s throat and he decides maybe he shouldn’t try to talk right now. Reese’s arms slide tight around his middle and the pace quickens.

“You don’t hate this,” he says. His tone is warm, cajoling, pleading. The buttons on Reese’s shirt are biting into the skin of his back, but one hand slides between his legs, teasing, begging. _Forgive me. Forgive me._ Reese pulls him back and back and back and heat pools in Fusco’s belly and the muscles in his legs start to twitch.

“No,” he grunts, and then a low, shuddering groan and he falls forward, breathing hard. Can’t think. Can’t fight. Can’t lie. “I don’t hate this,” he sighs.

Reese finishes quickly, quietly, rolls off to the side but pulls Fusco along with him, still clutching him tight. “Good boy,” he whispers, one hand meandering vaguely over Fusco’s chest and stomach. “Good boy.”

Fusco aims a savage punch at his arm. “Stop talking about me like I’m a goddamn dog or I’ll wreck you,” he says. The vitriol has gone out of his voice. He’s too damn tired to be pissed off.

“You couldn’t wreck me if you tried,” Reese says. He sounds tolerant, fond. There’s a laugh behind his voice.

Fusco shrugs. “Even so.”

Reese releases him, and Fusco tries to make some space between them, but Reese grabs him by the collar again. He struggles, and Reese mutters, “Hold still. Just let me take it off you.” His fingers go to work on the buckle, sluggish and fumbling. “Don’t want you choking in your sleep.”

It comes off easy, and Reese tosses it carelessly onto the nightstand. His hands are on Fusco’s neck again in a moment, touching flesh rubbed raw with a kind of reverence.

“I’ve worn it to sleep before,” he admits. There’s so little shame left in him now.

An unexpected smile flashes across Reese’s face, just for a moment, like a freak lightning storm. It fades just as suddenly.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to grey_spider for the amazing fanmix and general support, and to dauphkantus for her keen editorial eye.


End file.
